Few planes in American history have generated as much controversy and emotion as the Enola Gay, the B-29 Superfortress that delivered the first atomic bomb to Hiroshima. Its legacy is not only connected with the beginning of the nuclear era but also with how one airplane became a lightning rod for arguments over how war is remembered—triumph, tragedy, or something in the middle.
The B-29 itself was an incredible aircraft in its day, one of the most sophisticated engineering accomplishments of World War II. It flew faster, higher, and further than any bomber to that point, with pressurized cabins, remotely controlled gun turrets, and massive engines that provided it with unrivaled range. Designing the airplane was more expensive than almost any other war project, even more expensive than the Manhattan Project, and although initial setbacks and defects plagued it, it eventually proved to be the deciding factor in the Pacific War.
The Enola Gay was just one of several B-29s specially adapted under the program Silverplate to deliver atomic bombs. Among the changes were a strengthened bomb bay, improved engines, and lighter defensive armament to increase its range and speed. Named by its pilot, Paul Tibbets, after his mother, the bomber left an indelible mark on history when it took off from Tinian Island on August 6, 1945, with the uranium bomb known as “Little Boy.” The bombing of Hiroshima, followed shortly by that of Nagasaki, immediately preceded Japan’s surrender and the conclusion of the war.
Years later, the history of the plane took a different turn. By the late 1980s, the plane had fallen into terrible shape after being stored for decades, even being looted by souvenir seekers. Veterans’ organizations lobbied for its restoration, and the National Air and Space Museum at the Smithsonian began to restore and exhibit it in anticipation of the 50th anniversary of the war’s end. The museum director, Martin Harwit, envisioned this as an opportunity to show more than a relic—he wanted an exhibit that would examine the entire historical context of the bombing, including the war in the Pacific and the process of decision-making, the destruction in Japan, and the Cold War’s long shadow.
The planned exhibit, named “Crossroads,” extended more than 500 pages in planning documents. It sought to cover both the technical history of the aircraft and the human history of those who lived through its mission, such as Japanese survivors. Though balanced in concept, the strategy was explosive in execution.
Veterans’ organizations and political figures complained that the proposal concentrated too much on the suffering in Japan and not enough on the rationale behind the bombings. For them, the exhibit needed to affirm clearly that the atomic strikes ended the war and spared countless American lives. Historians, however, continued to debate whether the bomb was the only option.
Once the press began covering the plans, the controversy escalated into a national spectacle. Critics accused the Smithsonian of being unpatriotic, and congressional leaders threatened the museum’s funding unless changes were made. Under increasing pressure, the exhibit was repeatedly revised, with many of the photographs, casualty statistics, and interpretive signage removed.
Finally, Smithsonian Secretary I. Michael Heyman dumped the ambitious original and substituted for it a much less elaborate display: the restored front half of the Enola Gay, some wartime newspaper headlines, and a brief film on its restoration.
When the final configuration opened in June 1995, it looked little like the original concept. It was seen by some as a sanitized presentation, though many veterans did see it as finally respectful. The conflict over compromise was too much for Harwit, who resigned instead of working under such constraints.
The battle over how to exhibit the Enola Gay had a profound impact on American cultural institutions. It schooled museums in taking care when explaining controversial moments from the past and showed how jealously individuals protect their accounts of war. Now, the restored Enola Gay sits at the Smithsonian’s Udvar-Hazy Center, largely bereft of context, for visitors to grapple with its legacy on their own terms.
In the end, the controversy was never about the airplane at all. It was about who gets to control historical memory, and whether remembering should provide reassurance in triumph or force us to deal with the unpalatable truths of war. It is a question that persists, rendering the Enola Gay not only an artifact of history but also a reminder of how we narrate war and, as a result, view ourselves.